


There's Art in the Violence of War; Or, How 'Planes' Should have Ended

by why_bother



Category: Cars (Pixar Movies), Planes (Movies)
Genre: Graphic Description, M/M, Violence, Vore, Voyeurism, its airplanes idk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-08
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 07:34:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26349430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/why_bother/pseuds/why_bother
Summary: Dusty bites a little more off than he can chew. Echo and Bravo bite off just enough. Flysenhower watches.Bad things happen to good characters, no like no read :DDD
Relationships: Bravo/Echo (Planes), Flysenhower/Bravo/Echo (implied), dusty crophopper/bravo/echo
Comments: 8
Kudos: 14





	There's Art in the Violence of War; Or, How 'Planes' Should have Ended

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for this.
> 
> Sort of.
> 
> Nnnnot really. 
> 
> Song: Cliff Martinez- Are We Having A Party

Throttle flagging, hundreds of miles from anywhere to land, Dusty Crophopper wobbled in the air above the open ocean. Radio silence in his head was louder than his own voice as he called out what seemed like the hundredth call for Skipper, or anyone, on the other end. A low fuel alarm on his dash blared suddenly, removing his attention from his radio for a moment and bringing in a rush of panic.

“Oh, oh no,” Dusty responded to himself, with nothing but clouds and water in view and only a handful of miles left to go. “F-fuck,” Dusty breathed, with the sudden thought he’d be finding out if he was just as good of a boat as he was a plane.

The sudden rush of air and sound was overwhelming, dropping in from nowhere with a shadow from the clouds behind him.

“Unknown rider,” a flat voice commanded, “You are in restricted airspace. Why haven’t you responded to your radio?”

“S-someone broke my antenna,” Dusty stammered, as the craft behind him slid effortlessly to his side.

The jet demanded his identification and Dusty complied, in a rush. As he stammered on to explain his predicament, another aircraft, identical but for a different colored helmet, slid from the clouds. The noise of the jet engines was deafening, louder than Dusty’s own engine pounding in his head. Seconds felt like hours as the second jet notified Dusty of the actual bearing and distance from his intended destination.

“Nowhere to land around here,” the second jet responded with a flat sort of amusement, “We’ll take you to the boat.”

“The… boat?”

The next few minutes moved by in a blur of confusion and trepidation, as Dusty’s new guides escorted him towards the _largest being Dusty had ever seen_ floating on the water and with clipped instruction, brought him into the landing. From the instant Dusty’s wheels touched the runway, it was only fractions of a second before a tight tension at his rear brought him to a jarring halt. Cheers brought his eyes open only meters from a raised barricade of cables, and the pounding in his head drowned out any sense of accomplishment for his feat for the moment.

“Welcome aboard, Crophopper,” uttered the ship itself, voice projected by a speaker somewhere on the deck behind Dusty, loud and very clear and devoid of any irony.

Breathless, Dusty followed his two escorts across the deck and the cold blues of the Flysenhower, shaded below the brim of a large hat, followed for a few seconds before flicking back to the horizon.

“Let’s get you some fuel and repairs,” directed the jet in red, folding his wings to Dusty’s left. The deck below them dropped, and Dusty’s heart did too- it was just an elevator. The sunlight of the day faded away to artificial light of the ship’s interior.

Unable to suspend his own disbelief, Dusty let himself be led through the motions of refuel and slowly his RPM returned to normal with his usual chatter. He talked about his racing, his mentor and his battles, his drive to leave the fields and make a name. Echo and Bravo responded only sparsely, looking on with a shade of bemused detachment. Dusty prattled on, oblivious to the forced-ness of the toothy grins, just a hair too wide. Born a racer! A tiredness settled in, along with a seeping disappointment as he realized the tremendous loss of position.

_Fuck!_

“Guys! I gotta get back in the air,” Dusty gasped, “Do you have a radio I can use? I need to get ahold of my crew chief. He’s- he’s Skipper Riley, he’s one of you. Can I get that antenna replacement that you mentioned? I can’t be getting lost again!”

Echo’s gaze slid overhead and met the other jet’s as Dusty chattered on about Mexico and the race.

“Actually,” Bravo interrupted, “The admiral needs to have a word with you.”

“Now? Can I at least get a word out to Skipper quickly, first?”

“Now.”

Echo’s response was _definitiv_ _e,_ not as harsh as it was concise. A small tremor of forewarning made its way down Dusty’s back from his canopy to his tail beneath the gray gaze of the twin fighters and Dusty took his cue. Mind racing, he wordlessly followed the fighters back to the elevator and back atop the deck.

The light of the day was beginning to wane, yellows and haze seeping in across the vast deck and into Dusty’s sight as he crossed back into the Flysenhower’s gaze, flanked by his matte gray escorts.

“Y-yes, sir?” Dusty called, only a third of his attention in the present moments. “I’m beyond thankful for the kindness of you and your crew, I dont know if you know what you’ve done for me!

Flysenhower’s gaze flicked only for a second to Dusty, then back to the horizon.

“So you fancy yourself a racer, crop duster?”

“It’s Crophopper,” Dusty protested, “I’m not a crop duster any more. But Skipper’s waiting for me, Skipper Riley, he’s one of the Jolly Wrenches, he’s one of you-”

“Yes, I remember Skipper,” the ship replied, voice loud and cutting over Dusty’s own.

“He’s waiting for me to respond, it’s been hours-” Dusty chattered again,

“Listen, crop duster,” Flysenhower replied flatly, eyes on the horizon, “I’m a ship of few words. But I’ll-”

“It’s Crophopper, please.”

“Let me tell you something, _crop duster_. Every machine is made for a job. Every machine has its purpose, its duty. Skipper left his.”

Dusty was silent, disbelieving. The dozen or so jets atop the flight deck had slowly moved in, watching the exchange with the identical gray eyes common to their species, and Dusty suddenly felt very small.

“Every machine is made for something, crop duster. The thought to sidestep your manufactured duty and chase an illusion is what nearly got you killed, cold and alone and thousands of miles from home. You weren’t made for this.”

Dusty could hear his own breath drowning out his own thoughts as the carrier spoke.

“N-no, I was born to be a racer.”

“The facts about it don’t care a whit about your feelings, crop duster, look at your record. You qualified by a technicality.”

Dusty’s vision blurred in the sting of the words, and in defiance he was unable to keep from revving his engine up to speed. Flysenhower’s lids raised slightly below his cap, and Echo and Bravo once again met each others gaze wordlessly overhead Dusty’s frame.

“You can delude yourself with the modern rhetoric all you like, crop duster, but try as you might you can’t escape the reality of it,” Flysenhower continued, “Every machine has its place. You tried to leave yours behind. And for what?”

Dusty glanced back at the runway behind him, very done with the carrier’s lecture.

“A wasp can’t be a honeybee, boy; and I can’t be a cruise ship. Fat sedans let planes like _you_ think they can just make up the rules,” Flysenhower continued, with a harshness in his voice as the rage built up in Dusty’s chest. “Cars like that keep planes like these-” his eyes flickered to the jets along his aft, “From what they were made to do. And put planes like you thinking they belong somewhere they never will.” Flysenhower’s eyes glanced down to Dusty from the horizon once more, and then back. “You’ll never win a race like this, crop duster, not even by accident. It’s time to go home.”

Wordlessly, and enraged, Dusty whipped around on his wheels and revved, headed for the end of Flysenhower’s flat bow. He closed his eyes, picking up speed, and repeated to himself the mantra of his role model and inspiration.

I am speed. I _am_ speed. _I am speed_.

Behind him, the blue eyes of the carrier flicked to Echo and Bravo.

“Engage.”

Dusty didn’t hear the command, just the sound of the jet engines flaring behind him as his own prop pounded the air, and he knew he could do it. He could navigate on his own from here, he’d done it before in the large fields. Born to race!

He felt the air push against his ailerons as his wheels left the edge of the carrier’s bow and lift pushed him up, up and away from the carrier and the searing pain of the reality Dusty refused to believe. Fuel tanks full and with the bearing in mind Dusty had heard repeated last on deck, he banked to the right, hard- setting a path for the end of the rally leg. He hoped Skipper and the crew had arrived in Mexico before him, and set his grim determination on his goal, and his thoughts on his friends.

Suddenly, a roar of engines flared up behind him, and a force slammed down on his left wing as Echo bit down hard.

“Where you headed, crop duster?” Bravo sneered flatly, appearing to his opposite side. “You really thought that would work?”

Echo whipped left, and Dusty screamed aloud from the pain as the force threatened to tear his wing clear off. He heard Bravo laugh, lazily barrel-rolling over him as Echo maneuvered him back around- back the way he’d come.

“You really wanna go fast, huh?”

“P-please, dont!” Dusty shouted, voice cracking, “Let me go!”

Fear, dread, and regret crept in as Bravo laughed again and the view of the huge carrier came back into view. Flysenhower’s huge mouth was flat and expressionless, illuminated under the tip of his bow by the setting sun. His eyes, devoid of empathy, met Dusty and followed his path back in. Dusty pulled back, to no avail, and Echo’s grip was firm and painful on his wing.

“Better bring that landing gear down, boy,” Bravo snarled, “Unless you want this to hurt.”

Defiance had left only fear in its wake, and Dusty complied wordlessly as they descended back to the deck. The hook caught Echo’s tail and jerked them both to a stop, with another searing pain to Dusty’s wing. Pistons pounding in his head, eyes alight with fear and shame, Dusty was helpless but to obey as Echo dragged him back.

“You should never have left those fields,” Flysenhower cut in, and a tingle of dread tickled its way into the tips of Dusty’s props. Trapped, and feeling very small, feeling very helpless, Dusty said nothing. “Such _hubris.”_

Dusty’s own breath echoed in his ears, and he realized the ship’s engines were silent. Dead in the water, Dusty thought.

“You stand upon my decks and deny to me your Manufacturer-given purpose,” Flysenhower said slowly, and the tingle of fear tiptoed its way once more down the slender line of Dusty’s back. When the carrier spoke again, it was almost a whisper. “Far be it from me to deny mine.”

The jets on deck were closer than Dusty was comfortable with, oil pressure and senses high. Flysenhower’s gaze no longer flicked back to the ocean beyond, but stayed fixed on Dusty, pupils wide.

Suddenly, Echo flinched hard to the side, jerking Dusty to the left and eliciting another cry. Beads of fluid formed in small punctures, and Dusty heard the ship’s breath hitch over the speakers.

An unquenchable alarm rose hard within Dusty, pistons pounded in Dusty’s head as the realization of what those planes really were made for hit him. He strained hard against Echo’s vicegrip, the heat of the jet’s mouth and pinch of his teeth harsh against his form. Dwarfed by the jets beside him, underpowered in every way, his resistance to Echo’s firm hold proved utterly futile.

“Permission, Admiral?” Bravo said suddenly, voice cutting high across Dusty’s frame. A panic washed in, and he begged for mercy as Flysenhower raised a brow.

“Permission granted,” Flysenhower breathed.

Dusty didn’t have time for another word. Within a second, Echo clamped down hard, twisting down and to the side and jerked Dusty’s wing with a force harder than Dusty had ever experienced. A pulling pain and then a hard ‘pop’, all in a single motion, and the wing was off. Hydraulic fluid spurted from what remained, splashing across Echo’s nose and meters across the deck. Dusty screamed. In two snapping bites, the wing was gone in Echo’s massive maw.

Wordlessly, Admiral Flysenhower watched from beneath the visor of his cap as Bravo slid in and with a sweeping motion from behind, ripped the crop duster’s landing gear from their struts. Hoarse, Dusty screamed, but Echo moved fluidly and grabbed him by the tail. With a snarl, he shook the prop plane with a whipping motion from side to side. As fluid as it was violent, the next motion of Bravo caught Dusty’s remaining wing in motion and pulled it back in his own direction, ripping it off and devouring it immediately. Echo snarled, pleased beyond measure, and pulled more of Dusty’s frame into his big mouth.

In the peripheral, another jet dipped forward with a raspy tongue to lick the deck where Dusty’s hydraulic fluid had splashed. Flysenhower’s eyelids fluttered.

Vision blacking, fresh fuel and dwindling hydraulic fluid sliding down his frame and dripping down from his belly to the growing puddle beneath him, Dusty shuddered. Smoothly, Bravo moved forward and pivoted around in front to grasp Dusty’s nose in his own mouth. Blinking, blinded in the jet’s maw, the smell of hot oil and his own innards weren’t perceptible through the pain. Echo and Bravo met eyes over the broken form of their quarry, and with a simultaneous bite and twist, it was over.

____________________________________________________________________

“Well, all right boys,” Flysenhower said, drinking in the last of the scene on his deck in the setting sun. “Goes without saying there’ll be no trace. He went so off course they won’t even know where to start looking. How about you get this lil’ victory cleaned up?”

Grey eyes dark, oil pressure high from the frenzy of feeding, Echo and Bravo responded with a breathless “Affirmative,” and set to lapping up the oily mess on the deck between them. The ship shuddered slightly, as the engines kicked back into gear.

“A bit, ah… do that a bit slower, then, would you?”

“...Affirmative, Admiral.”


End file.
